


I Was Watching the Whole Time

by teaandjumpers



Series: I Was Watching the Whole Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the trial, Moriarty pays John a visit at 221b.</p><p>
  <i>"It's a pity I didn't find you first," says Moriarty. "I could've made you into something beautiful. Something fearsome, instead of a desperate lapdog caught in a jumper."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was Watching the Whole Time

When John makes it back to 221b with the groceries, he's more than a little surprised to find Moriarty there, casually examining their mantlepiece. His first instinct is to drop the groceries and find some blunt object to use as a weapon. But this is Moriarty. He could probably have him killed by a look. By the lack of a look. By some codeword that a slew of snipers were no doubt listening for. He checks the windows and sure enough the curtains are wide open.

So he takes a deep breath and sets the shopping down on the kitchen table instead.

Morirarty is smirking at him, knowingly. "Good," he says. "You're learning. And they say you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

"Sherlock's not here," says John, hoping to spare a scene, a mess, but it's likely that Moriarty knows this, that he is here when John is and Sherlock isn't for a reason.

"Always the observant pet, aren't you, John?" He makes his way towards John, hands casually tucked into his pockets, demeanor deceptively relaxed.

He stops a few inches way from him, craning his neck so that he's in John's space. His breath smells like spearmint, but the scent is barely there, as if it's trying to ward off some stronger smell. "No. I'm here to see you Johnny boy."

John has to ball his hands into fists to keep from punching the man. He _hates_ being called Johnny boy. He hates that every time they have met, Moriarty has had the upper hand.

"I have to say, you looked quite smart in that suit of yours at the trial. A knitted tie? Very brave indeed."

His eyes rake down the length of John, down his checkered shirt and faded jeans, pointedly stopping at John's groin and then flicking back to his eyes.

"But that's you all over, isn't it?" says Moriarty.

"What do you want?" asks John. He is tired of the games. Sherlock may be willing to play with Moriarty, to exchange smart words and theatrics, but John won't give the man the satisfaction. He would never tell Sherlock, but in his heart he believes that a good many lives could have been saved if Sherlock wasn't so enthralled by the mere idea of one James Moriarty.

Moriarty is circling John now. He pulls off his jacket and lays it on Sherlock's chair.

"This will all be over soon," he says gesturing to the flat around him, though John assumes he's referring to something bigger. Moriarty starts undoing the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up the sleeves.

"And I'd hate for it to end without getting the chance to hear you scream," says Moriarty. The right side of his lip twitches upwards in a half-smile. "Properly."

The smile slides off his lips and his eyes turn cold. "Get on the couch," he tells John. "On your back."

John blinks. It takes an embarrassingly long moment to realize what Moriarty is asking of him and when he does, he finds himself gaping like a fish. Surely, surely he doesn't want that from John. Not "Mr. I don't get my hands dirty." Not when he could get it from Sherlock. But of course, that's what this was all about. Sherlock. He'd get to Sherlock by doing this to John. By showing Sherlock what he could do with the people he cares for.

A red light appears on John's chest and he knows he has to do as he's told. Not because Moriarty might kill him, he might do that anyway, but because Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock might come home and John doesn't want either of them to be involved--in any capacity.

His legs feel heavy, like blocks, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to get to the sofa. He grabs Sherlock's favorite pillow, places it beneath his head, and lies back.

Moriarty rubs his palms together and lets out a sharp breath. He pivots his hip to one side and then the other. He raises his hands above his head and reaches upwards. John realizes that the man is stretching. He wants to say something, like "get it over with," but he thinks it may be best to stay quiet. Moriarty wants a reaction. He wants to break John and, in turn, break Sherlock. That much is clear. But John won't play this the way Moriarty wants him to.

Moriarty jumps onto the couch with little preamble. His hands head straight for John's buckle and he smiles down at John, unblinking as he pulls the belt out of its loops. He quickly divests John of his jeans and pants.

John shuts his eyes. He has to. He can't face this. He can't bear to look at Moriarty's smirking face.

The heavy weight of a hand on his chest makes him snap his eyes open.

"Uh, uh, uh," Moriarty says. "Eyes on me, Johnny."

Moriarty pulls out a bottle of lubricant from his coat pocket and waves it at John. "Let it not be said that I don't think of others."

"Do you do this for Sherlock?" he asks. "Of course not. He musn't let you get too close. But you wish you could, don't you? You wish he'd ask you. You'd let him tie you up and fuck you against a dumpster if he asked."

He brings a hand to John's face and caresses his cheek. "It would be sweet, if it weren't so utterly pathetic."

John has clenched his jaw shut. He refuses to rise to the bait. He won't say a word.

Moriarty slicks up his fingers and slides them into John, patiently preparing him. "I'm going to be gentle with you, because if I used you like the useless novelty item you are, you would hate me for it."

John is wound up tighter than a fisherman's-knot, but he feels himself open up, accommodate more and more of Moriarty even though his muscles are stiff and clenched.

"But if I make you enjoy this," continues Moriarty, "if I make you come, you'll hate yourself. And isn't that more fun?"

John is sickened to find that Moriarty is looking at his face and not at his groin. He expected the man to take pleasure from watching himself breach John, but the man is staring at John, looking straight into his eyes and smiling like it's his birthday.

"You're wonderfully expressive John. I'd hate to miss the look on your face when we become one."

The mind-reading trick is more impressive when Sherlock is the one doing it. Right now, it makes John's stomach seize and he has to look down at the red dot on his chest to remind himself that he can't grab Moriarty's dick and rip it off.

Moriarty glides into John too easily. It doesn't even sting, Moriarty makes sure of that, but John can't help the cry of shock that escapes his lips when he's penetrated.

"It's a shame you and Sherlock haven't done this. He doesn't know what he's missing."

He finds John's prostate entirely too quickly. John would be impressed, it he wasn't trying so hard to keep the bile from rising up his throat.

He props one of John's legs over the back of the couch and plants the other one solidly onto the ground. He braces one hand on John's raised knee and the other on his hip as he sets up a steady rhythm, hitting John's prostate every time.

Moriarty runs his hands up and down John's thighs, spreading his fingers out so that they comb through the fine hair on John's legs. He rolls his hips slowly, following through until he's completely entrenched in John.

John wishes Moriarty would just ruthlessly fuck him into the couch. The snail like pace he's set won't let John detach from the situation. Not when the length of Moriarty is sliding into him, angling to hit that sweet spot only to pull out and with the promise of hitting home again and again.

"Do you wonder why he hasn't given you a whirl? Does it keep you up at night, knowing he doesn't think you're worthy. He was this close to taking up with Irene. I think that's why he saved her in the end, just to keep that in the cards."

John's mind stops. He has trouble processing the information. There is too much happening. He already feels betrayed. He feels like Sherlock should have been able to foresee this. To prevent this from happening. But of course he's not there when John really needs him. He's been trying very hard to control his breathing. He doesn't want to cry or have an anxiety attack. Not in front of Moriarty. And underneath it all, worst of all, there's the threat of pleasure, because Moriarty knows exactly what he's doing. John's been half-hard for awhile now and if it was someone else on top of him right now, he would have come a long time ago.

What did he mean save Irene?

Moriarty's adopts a face of mock pity. "Oh dear. He didn't tell you. Well I guess that's your answer."

John shuts his eyes again because this, all of this, is too much. He's ashamed to admit how much the news of Irene hurts, how much it hurts now given his present situation. Why would Sherlock lie to him? Why was this happening?

Moriarty snaps his fingers in front of John's face and he flashes his eyes open.

"None of that," says Moriarty, pulling out of John and pushing in again. This time there's more force behind the thrust, as if he's trying to keep John's attention.

He places a hand around John's throat and lightly squeezes as he reverts back to a gentler pace. He doesn't cut off John's breathing, but it does force John to take longer, sharper breaths.

"It's a pity I didn't find you first," says Moriarty. "I could've made you into something beautiful. Something fearsome, instead of a desperate lapdog caught in a jumper."

He is looking down at John with reverence and disgust. John didn't think those two expressions could ever occupy one face, but Moriarty manages it with ease.

He leans backwards, pulling himself almost entirely out of John and then stills.

"Roll your hips up," he tells John.

"Wh-what?" asks John. He hasn't spoken much. That much is deliberate and he's embarrassed by how broken he sounds.

"Don't be boring, John," says Moriarty. "You heard me." He grabs John's hips and rolls them upwards so that he's completely buried inside of him.

John bites back a cry.

"I can't be doing all of the work here," says Moriarty.

John's eyes are burning and he has to remind himself to blink. Moriarty is looking down at him expectantly, and John does his best to take a steadying breath. Somewhere in the back of his head he is aware of the fact that Sherlock can return home any moment, and he'd rather have this done with, have Moriarty out of the flat, before the consulting detective comes back.

He braces his hands against the sofa's armrest and as he does so, Moriarty releases an exclamation of unfettered glee.

John has trouble getting the bottom half of his body to move. His legs shake and his arse, covered in cold sweat, has stuck itself to the sofa coverings.

He manages to brace his legs on either side of Moriarty and rolls his hips upwards, taking in the length of the man. He tries hard not to think about what he's doing as he pivots his hips up and down. Moriarty is pressing in all around him.

"This is where you belong, John. At the end of a hard cock."

John feels his face heat. He is angry, and it makes him push upwards, around Moriarty, with more force.

When he hears the other man's chuckle, he realizes it was just what Moriarty was aiming for.

"It's like playing a kid in primary school," says Moriarty.

He moves forward, folding John's legs against his chest, and begins pummeling into John. He can feel the sofa skid with each of Moriarty's thrusts. The man's breath is sour against John's face, and John turns his head so that he can bury his face into the back of the sofa. Moriarty doesn't stop him. The friction is overwhelming, and he feels a familiar heat pool in his belly. He wants this to stop, he needs this to stop, but Moriarty, attuned to John's suffering, grabs John's cock in a sweaty grip. He strokes John in tandem with his thrusts and John tries to think of bloodied bodies, his hatred for the man doing this to him, the disappointed look on Sherlock's face when he finds out, anything to keep his body from giving in to the sensation of a warm body and being filled, but orgasm ripples through him and he finds himself clenching around Moriarty as he comes in painful spurts.

This time, John does cry out, and as he does so, Moriarty hums in appreciation and yells out, "Yes, yes, yes!"

Moriarty continues his assault until a fierce groan tears through him. He quickly pulls out of John and comes all over John's shirt and neck.

He forces John to look at him. He rakes his hand through the cum and covers John's face with the liquid. He drags it over John's eyelids, his cheeks. He pries John's mouth open and spreads some across his teeth.

Moriarty disentangles himself from John quickly, pulling on his clothes and redoing the cuffs of his shirt. John lies completely still. He looks down at his chest. There is cum all over his shirt, some of it his, some of it Moriarty's, and drops of it seep through the gaps of his shirt and onto his chest. The cum on his face has cooled and hardened across his skin. He wants to go wash up, to get rid of the evidence before Sherlock comes home, but Moriarty is still there, patiently tying up the laces of his shoes as if he hadn't just violated John in every possible way. Also, John's legs feel boneless and he's not sure he can even move them right now, let alone walk.

John distantly hears the front door open.

"Just in time," says Moriarty. He kneels over John and smacks a kiss on the top of his forehead. "Thank you, John. You were just what I needed."

Moriarty walks away and John can hear him on the steps, saying, "I think your pet needs a bath."

There is no response.

"You should really consider renting him out," Moriarty calls out. "Does wonders for tension."

John hears Sherlock call out his name. It's barely a whisper, but he can hear the fear and panic in it.

He hears Sherlock scramble towards him. From the corner of his eye he sees the other man trip over the coffee table, raise himself up, and kneel at John's side.

The downstairs door shuts. Moriarty is gone.

Sherlock is crying. Sobbing, really. It's a first.

He is saying John's name over and over again along with _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm sorry_.

Sherlock looks like he's afraid to touch John. His hands are hovering around him, stroking the sofa, wiping the tears from his own face, but they don't reach out to John. He does take off his coat and drape it over John. Its weight and smell feel right and John is grateful to Sherlock, even though a part of him knows how absurd that is.

Sherlock buries his head into John's shoulder. He is gasping for air. John can't bring himself to look at the other man. He can't bring himself to move. He is very tired. His legs hurt. His insides hurt. He can't pull his eyes away from the ceiling.

It takes every bit of his willpower to raise a hand to Sherlock, to lay a comforting hand in his hair, and to hold on tightly.


End file.
